Chapter Text
They've been traveling together for at least three months now. With Robicheaux hyping up the drunken crowds of dust-covered men at quick-draw competitions, Billy's pockets are heavy for the first time in his life, and he's grateful to the theatrical man sleeping soundly a few feet from him.
Goodnight doesn't always sleep soundly, but tonight seems to be one of those rare nights. The embers from the dying fire barely illuminate the campsite, the sliver of the moon contributing nothing to Billy's vision. The stars above him are just as overwhelming now as they were decades ago, on the Californian shores as a child, staring up and dreaming of his homeland. He wonders briefly is Goodnight ever has the same feeling, daydreaming about Baton Rouge when he should be sleeping.
Finally, Billy lets his eyes fall shut, and it feels like he's out in half a second. His dreams are nothing, and they do not disturb him tonight.
But something else does.
Being awoken by the sound of Goodnight's soft mumbles is not uncommon, Billy has learned. He sits up in his makeshift bed, listening to Goodnight as he speaks to men who aren't there. He can hardly make out most of it, and small bits of words like "on the left" and "get down" are all he catches. Goodnight seems fairly calm, despite this. Billy doesn't do anything but listen for now.
Almost as if on cue, as if to spite Billy's waning concern, Goodnight lets out a scream, as if someone reached inside him to rip his innards out. Billy is on his feet, straddling Robicheaux with a fluid, practiced ease that he's only had to use a handful of times over the last few months. He whispers Goodnight's name, tries to assure the man trapped in his own memories that everything is fine, pins his wrists to the desert floor to keep him from hurting either of them--and then Goodnight's eyes tear open.
Blue eyes, usually so calm and glittering, laced with a sadness long-sown, are wild and crazed. The man thrashes beneath Billy like a wild animal, screaming, "You goddamn Union sonuvabitch, get the hell offa me or I'll rip you to pieces, let me go!"
Billy finds himself scared; not for himself, but for Goodnight. He's never seen the man like this, not even during a waking spell in the midst of a firefight, where Billy has to wrangle the rifle from his hands to finish the job. He opens his mouth to say something, remind Goodnight that the war is over and he's safe, but in an instant, he's on his back and Goodnight's hands are wrapped around his throat.
It's only been three months, but Billy's heart shatters when he feels the air stop flowing. He trusted Robicheaux with his life, his secrets, his talents, and the man is strangling him in the middle of a desert with such intensity in his eyes that Billy wonders if this whole nightmare spiel was just a front to get Billy's defenses down. He reaches desperately for his knife belt, just barely out of reach.
"You know who I am?!" Goodnight roars above him, spittle flying from his lips like a rabid dog. "I am the Angel of Death! You look me in the eyes! I wanna see you die!"
He's going to kill me, Billy thinks, and finally wraps his fingers around the hilt of a silver blade. Weakened by the lack of oxygen and losing consciousness, he can only shakily hold the knife in front of him, the tip pointed at Robicheaux's side but unable to drive it through. The dying light of the fire glints off the polished metal, and something snaps within Goodnight.
Just as the blade wobbles and falls from Billy's grasp, Goodnight's hands fly back from the man's throat. Billy gasps and gulps down air like he's never tasted it before. His eye are bloodshot from the experience, and once he's regained his bearings, he snatches up the knife and skitters away from Goodnight, the blade held before him in a clear warning: don't come closer.
Goodnight, on the other hand, is staring blankly at his hands like it's the first time he's seeing them, apparently oblivious to Billy's panic and fear. Those big blue eyes of his are dropping globs of tears and the more they come, the harder he shakes. Billy realizes quickly that Goodnight is no longer a threat to him, and he approaches the man cautiously, his blade still held white-knuckled in his hand.
"Robicheaux," he says, his voice steely. Goodnight flinches at the sound, though Billy can't tell if it's because of the name or the tone or both. "What was that?"
That's all it takes, apparently. Goodnight's body heaves forward and he lets out a sob that Billy's sure can be heard on the other side of the desert. Billy, against his better judgement, drops his knife and grabs Goodnight's shoulders, pulling him up. Goodnight flinches away, but Billy insistently wraps his arms around the shaking man, one hand sinking into Goodnight's sleep-tangled hair to keep him close. Despite the bruises he'll have by dawn, Billy knows he's not the wounded party here.
"I'm so sorry, Billy," Goodnight whimpers, and Billy shushes him, partially because he doesn't know what to say, and partially because of his damaged throat. No words need be exchanged, they both know it.
Four hours later, they're awoken by the sun rising over the hills. Neither can remember when they fell asleep, but they're tucked under their combined blankets and coats, Goodnight's arms locked tight around Billy's torso, the latter's hands resting gently on his back. The bruises have formed on Billy's throat, as predicted, an ugly reddish-purple that makes Goodnight look away in shame when he sees them. Billy is sure to tie a bandana around his neck to cover them for his companion's sake.
They take a rabbit, skinned the night before for dinner, and finish it off for breakfast, then pack up their camp and ride off into nowhere again. As usual, the day is filled with Goodnight's flamboyant stories of ill repute, and with Billy's occasional two-word interjections that leave Goodnight spooking his horse from laughter. The only difference this time is that Goodnight never looks back at Billy, a silent statement telling him that the man could turn tail and leave whenever he pleases.
Billy, upon realizing this, nudges his heels into his horse's side, falling step with Goodnight. The man next to him tilts his head in question, and Billy only smirks before snapping the reigns on his horse to speed forward. Though his throat is burning from the night before, he looks back and calls, "Keep up, old man!"
Goodnight's smile is genuine as he urges his steed forward, laughing in earnest with his companion.
Words need not be spoken, despite how much the two rely on them. Billy doesn't need to tell Goodnight that he's safe, and Goodnight doesn't have to thank Billy for keeping it that way.
They just know.